


Look at this tangle of thorns

by Polia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Felching, Flirting, Masturbation, Petyr/Sansa Week, Pining, Prompt Fic, Rough Sex, Song: Don't Stand So Close To Me, Spanking, Underage Sex, Vaginal Sex, scar kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polia/pseuds/Polia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Student/Teacher ode that is "Don't Stand So Close To Me", with Petyr and Sansa in the main roles. Set roughly in 70s England. Lots of sexual frustration, pining, anxiety, shameless flirtation, and then copious sex. Heed the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at this tangle of thorns

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Petyr/Sansa week over on tumblr, and specifically for the prompt that asked for a fic inspired by that wonderful song by The Police.  
> Short disclaimer, I _love_ The Police, they are my whole adolescence, and their teacher-kink song is one of my absolute favourites and I know the (rather short) story behind it and I love everything about it and *breathes* basically when I saw that prompt I had to fill it.
> 
> Which is why this fic is rather large. It's the longest oneshot I've ever done. There is a lot of exposition, cheesy description of the typical sexual frustrations and tested conscience. But then the smut comes in, so it's all good.  
> Enjoy!

His classroom was filled with an atmosphere which was so stereotypically "spring" - that most irritating of seasons, so symbolists say. There was the constant noise of scribblings on paper, scratchy and hollow, and dust in the stale air, and over all of this hung a sunny warmth. April afternoon.

Professor Baelish had given his students some generic test to fill their time. He didn't feel like teaching that day, and the day was almost done.  
He spent his hour torturing opinions on French poets for some journal he wanted to get published in, but the damn thing wasn't coming at all. At least the girls were writing...

He hadn't expected to get the position he did, teaching Literature at an all-girls school. The headmistress didn't seem to like him either, she of the big blonde coif and sour mouth. But Petyr had learnt long ago how to make himself seem pleasant and trustworthy.

Not that there was any reason why he should be anything but trustworthy, of course. Except perhaps Miss Stark.

Long legged Miss Stark who just slithered out of her seat and was making her way to his desk. Petyr couldn't help but feel wary as he watched her coming closer. He always felt a sense of "trouble" around her.

She made some pardon and plea while he looked up at her above the rim of his glasses and played his usual congenial smile which, somewhat against his intentions, managed to also look a little sly.  
"Yes, Miss Stark, what is it?" he asked, not unkindly.  
"I was wondering if the structure was right, sir. I've started to talk about the genre... can I show you?"  
"Yes, you can - and may." he corrected. She smiled.

And then got around the desk to stand closer to him, and leaned down, showing him her half-written paper.  
"I've started with the genre here, but I was wondering whether I should expand on the background first?"  
Petyr looked over what she had, trying to focus on the tiny handwriting when she was standing so suffocatingly near, as she tended to do. Her curtain of auburn hair brought out such a heat around him that he tugged on his collar.

She had pretty handwriting, he had to admit; elegant. She was far enough in the paper that it was too late to turn back now, so Petyr advised her to continue with the description of the genre, and give a synthesis of the story's background before she started on the analysis proper.  
Sansa seemed happy enough with that advice, and sauntered back to her seat. Petyr tried not to stare.

He hazily noticed the sharp looks she got as she navigated the little corridor of benches. Some of the girls just didn't seem to like her. If there was anything that surprised professor Baelish in his career, it was the depth of envy that girls were capable of. And he was very grateful for his position as teacher, above - if not removed from - their world of small schemes and conflicts. Academia was filled with enough of those.

 

* * *

 

Petyr was busy grading tests all through the weekend, silently cursing himself for that burden. His class had some surprisingly bright elements, and they gave him an awful lot to read, though none of it very interesting as was usual with high school.

He felt an involuntary perk-up when he reached Sansa's paper, and for the first time that hour had the sense that he was attentive to what he was reading.

He had to smile. She never did her reading properly, Sansa Stark, but she had a keen cleverness to her. Her knowledge of genre was patchy, but her analysis was surprisingly insightful, even original.

Reading down her two pages, Petyr fell into a contented lethargy; relaxed, but alert. Reading Sansa's handwriting had come to have a sedative effect on him.

She was always nice to him, too nice almost. She had a sort of longing about her, a deep and innocent need which he could read in her eyes and, knowing her to be proud, suspected she would deny completely. Petyr wasn't yet sure why she seemed to like him, but it had the automatic effect of making him like her - a fact which he tried to hide, but could not quite hide from _her_.

He ran his thumb up and down the pale page, slipping into contemplation and no longer feeling like grading. He could get to the rest later.

He left the tests on the coffee table and laid down on the couch. The television was still running, nearly muted in the background, but he didn't bother turning it off. Petyr could almost take a nap, if it weren't for a peculiar irritation under his skin, that lingering sense of alertness he got from reading Sansa handwriting - and thinking about her, and about her hands, long slender fingers, and clever, delicate.

Sometimes she'd press them to her lips, as if to stop herself from speaking, and she would look at him with something more than the bored half-attention of the others. And some times, he'd catch her holding her chin with the thumb of her right hand, seeming contemplative, and rubbing her middle finger against the sharp dip in her upper lip, just under her nose, and those looks she would give him... It made Petyr shake and cough, a nervous reflex - although, if he stopped to think about it, it was the normal reaction to feeling cold, and indeed he felt naked when Sansa Stark looked at him.

 

* * *

 

She was trying to be quiet, but the further along she got, the harder it became to put a stop to the chain of little yelps and whines and moans she tricked out of herself.

Sansa should have spent that time sleeping, but she found it so hard to when she got excited. She could spend hours - and had nurtured a taste to - thinking about Mr. Baelish from Literature. He was one of the younger teachers they had, and one of the nicest, so patient with her and helpful, and sweet, and he liked her, and sometimes she missed what he said completely because she was too busy thinking about what his voice would sound like with her sucking him off under his desk.

Her fingers started moving quicker between her legs, and she reflexively gave a little twitch from the pleasure. She was so wet she could hear it slipping between her fingers, in crude little smacking sounds - she was incredibly wet, actually, and Sansa worried she would stain the bed. She could feel it licking between her cheeks, and after an hour of touching herself perhaps it was only natural.

With some difficulty, she shoved two fingers into her cunt, her back arching before she settled back down, and ran her digits in and out and imagined they were something else. Or someone else's. For the last few days she had been constructing a fantasy of being caught doing something or other, and Mr. Baelish holding back until after class, and pushing her against his desk and raising her student's skirt and running one of his elegant fingers between her lips. She played with several versions of dialogue, the things he would say to her, varying from playful to vulgar. Comments on her soft lips, her tight cunt, how wet she was - "Is this for me?" he might ask with his typical smirk. Sansa blushed just imagining it.

Her fingers were busy working at her with the fervour she might expect from him, how eagerly he'd shove his cock inside her, his hands gripping her waist, holding her against the desk uncaring of whether she wanted him or not, and fucking her desperately, abandoning all his pedagogic constraint.

"Oh my f--" she gasped absently, her chest thrust forward as her fingers worked almost independently, torturing her cunt and pressing against her walls and pulling at her lips and shoving in deeper and deeper, her arm straining over her torso, trying to get as close to that fantasy-state as she could.

Her fingers brushed against her swollen little clit as they fucked her. She didn't imagine Mr. Baelish would concern himself with that. There was a certain titillation to the idea of him caring only about her cunt, about satisfying himself with her with no care about whether she came or whether she liked it. Just wild wanting.

He gripped her neck, holding it off the desk - she made an effort to imagine the smell of chalk and ink on his fingers - and with the other he gripped her hair, holding her poised for him to whisper in her ear while his hips kept pumping against her vulnerable rear.

"Tell me to stop." he would hiss - caringly? cruelly? She just wanted a reason to say "no", and he would only fuck her harder.

 

* * *

 

Petyr trudged through another week with the same monotonous routine, page after page, dispassionate disinterest playing on face after face. And for certain spans of time he could almost feel like his life stood still, perhaps locked in a loop, like the little clouds of dust that sparkled in the sunlit classroom, floating in the air in aimless but eternal motions.

The only moments when his heart leapt in his chest were when he caught Sansa's eye. She was sitting in the front row that week, right in line with his desk, and when she wasn't writing she listened intently - and absently at the same time - with that finger tracing her upper lip. On Friday, when he gazed tiredly at the floor in the middle of an explanation on the nature of Kafka's insect in The Metamorphosis - a crude sketch on the blackboard behind him, going by the exact specifications of the narrator - as his eye, then, gazed away from Sansa just as she raised her leg to fiddle with a shoelace, he thought he caught sight of her thighs, and more precisely of what was between them.

She was slumping in her seat, quite unlike her, and with one long limb apart and the other kept in tension for her hand to reach one precious moment, he could almost see up her school uniform a pinkish gash and a smattering of auburn. He tore his eyes away before he could realise what it was he actually saw, and continued his idea with a tremble in his voice while his words tripped over themselves. Her foot thumped back down on the floor.

When class was over and everyone packed to leave, he called Sansa to his desk.

The girl seemed startled for a fraction of a second, before her face adopted the usual poise and she walked over to him.

He regretted it immediately. With her in front of him, coy and expectant, he didn't know what to say. Petyr had gotten on well with Sansa almost from the start. She was clever and attentive and he liked that, he was eager to nurture her intelligence. With her looks and graceful manner, she would make a striking adult. But the more their scholastic relationship progressed, the less easy he felt around her, and he didn't like his reaction.

"Miss Stark." he said, after a cough.  
"Yes, sir?"  
"I appreciate your attention in class, you know I do." Looking at her above the rim of his glasses, he saw her plump lips bloom in a smile. "But it would be more becoming of you to sit properly, when in my class at least."  
"Oh yes sir, I'm so sorry." she started, her tone a little disingenuous. "It's so warm though, isn't it?"  
"Yes, I suppose... You could have asked for someone to open a window." Petyr smiled, his voice going a bit rough as he started to lose his patience with her.  
"I didn't want to interrupt you, professor."  
"Hm."

He stared at her a moment longer, his mouth pulled in a sideways-smirk, while Sansa licked her lips under the pretence that they were cracked - which they were, a bit - and then he let her go.

 

* * *

 

Maybe Sansa was making him a little unwell. Maybe Petyr was making himself unwell lusting after her. He had avoided most aspects of social life for some years, after one disappointment too many. He liked to think of himself as disillusioned, but in moments of lucidity - when he gave in and jerked off in the shower, when he cried at night from frustration - he knew it was really because he kept his illusions, the ones he had left, and nurtured a romantic attitude. The world was too ugly to not hope for a life like in the stories, a love affair both sacred and profane - like in all the great novels he dissected, ostensibly with a clinical air, in class.

As Petyr sat in his car that rainy Saturday afternoon, waiting for the green light, he caught a flash of russet on the blue and grey background. He turned a fraction to look, distracted rather than interested, and then he looked again when he noticed - it was her. Sansa Stark was trembling at the bus stop, all alone and hugging herself, an umbrella clutched in her hand but her hair still got wet, rustled by the wind and sprinkled by stray raindrops.

Petyr looked away, back to the road, hoping to unsee or be unseen, wishing he weren't put in this position - rather dreamed of, by him, of a sort of knight or gallant, laying his cloak on the ground to keep the lady's dress from getting wet. But he couldn't, because he wasn't a knight, he was a teacher, and Sansa wasn't in his charge out of school.

He spared another look her way, and this time, to his despair, she was looking right at him. Frowning a little, she might not have been sure it was him. But the moment he caught her eye, she smiled. She looked relieved.

Petyr had no choice now. The light was still red, but there was no one behind him and the road was wide. He rolled down his window and said hello - very cold, very polite.

"Afternoon, Mr. Baelish." she smiled, brighter.  
"What are you doing here in this rain, Miss Stark?"  
"Coming back from my piano lessons. They've been cancelled though, emergency with... something."  
"You look freezing." Petyr commented, and he didn't have to feign his concern. Sansa wore a pretty coat, but her socks and skirt and polished shoes weren't something to wear in that weather.  
"Yes, I miscalculated." she smirked wryly.

Petyr smiled. He liked it when she was sarcastic or witty.  
"When's your bus?"  
"No idea." she said, rubbing her knees together as she stood next to his car. "I don't usually take it at this hour."

The light turned green.

"Would you like me to take you home?"  
"Oh that would be -- I'm not bothering you?"  
"No, not at all." he said invitingly. Sansa's gratitude was a picture of deliciousness.

Petyr had never seen her so lively before, half-frozen and rained upon, but so happy to be saved, and feeling perhaps a bit adventurous. It can't have been every day she climbed into strange cars - at least so he hoped.

She settled in his car, her umbrella folded at her feet, her hands trying to shake the dampness out of her hair, and her eyes glided slowly around with the typical curiosity of someone finding themselves in someone else's car for the first time.

"I didn't know you took piano lessons." Petyr commented, his eyes on the road but his attention on his passenger.  
"Yes, I started a few months ago."  
"Are you good?" he asked good naturedly.  
"Not very." she laughed.  
"Well, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it soon." his eyes slipping to her for a moment. "You have pianist fingers." Petyr commented before he could catch himself.  
But Sansa didn't seem to find the compliment improper. "That's what my mother says too." she added immediately, perfectly natural. "She wanted me to learn to play."

"You don't sound very happy."  
"I just don't think I like it." she pouted. "My teacher is..." and she struggled with words for a moment. "I just don't like her, she's not very nice."  
"I'm sorry to hear that." said Petyr.  
"You're a good teacher." Sansa then said, looking right at him and smiling. Petyr tried not to look at her but he couldn't help it, and seeing her face he smiled too.  
"I'm pleased to hear it." he murmured before looking back at the road.

Sansa went quiet after that, keeping a more relaxed attitude than he saw from her in class, staring out dreamily ahead and twirling the edge of her scarf around her little finger. Now and then her eyes turned to the car again, the dashboard, the swaying windscreen wipers.

She was subtle about looking at his fingers. He had his right hand on the wheel, and the left rested on his thigh, next to the gear stick.

It was probably the closest she had ever seen his hands, for this length of time. The skin was soft on the bone and muscle underneath, but pulled tightly over the veins. And his fingers were so long, Sansa almost lost her breath. They were longer than hers, and although slender - aristocratic, she thought - they were nearly twice as thick as her own. And he kept them around the wheel, gripping it almost like...

She pulled her plump lower lip in her mouth. She almost felt like grinding against the seat just thinking about how his fingers would feel pushing into her.

The hand on his leg was a dish too, and she could pretend to look at the floor when her eyes dipped to it. Her professor's lean hand, his fingers clean and neat, and pressed to his thigh. He didn't seem like a runner, but her Mr. Baelish seemed to have strong thighs. The thought of being held between them made Sansa shiver. She willed that hand to go higher up his own leg, to tease himself the way she'd like to tease him. But the professor kept his usual calm. Sansa didn't know how he managed to sit in a pose like that so casually.

"Where were you coming from?" she suddenly asked, curious.  
They had been in a comfortable silence until then, trained in it perhaps by their time in the classroom together. And her professor seemed eager to continue it, because he didn't look very comfortable as he was mulling over an answer.  
"You don't have to tell me..." Sansa added, "I was just--"  
"No, it's all right." Petyr assured her.  
"I shouldn't pry."  
"I was just picking something up from the pharmacy. Did some shopping after..."  
"Are you unwell?" she asked, putting aside her manners for childish curiosity and some measure of genuine concern.  
"Nothing contagious." he smiled at her, though it seemed bitter.  
Sansa kept her eyes on him, seeing through his discretion and avoidance.  
"Now I'll just invent horrible scenarios, you know." she half-joked. "I'll think you're probably dying of something."

Petyr gave a hearty laugh as he turned his eyes back to the road. It was turning into a morbid conversation but that was the brightest laugh she had ever heard from him. He was so much more open outside the classroom.

"I'm very touched by your concern." he finally said. "But no, it's nothing bad. Just me... getting old."  
"You don't seem old." the girl smiled.  
The comment drew his eyes back to her. "I'm twice your age." he pointed out.  
Sansa only shrugged, and kept smiling.

"Would you be upset if I died?" Petyr asked after a while.  
"Of course." answered the girl, almost offended that he had to ask. Her professor seemed to have a morbid streak, but he smiled softly at her answer.

The rain seemed to come and go, and they had been driving for almost half an hour when, stopped at another red light, Petyr jumped at a realization and silently cursed.  
"What's wrong?" asked Sansa, mirroring his alarm automatically.  
"I forgot to-- I'm such a fool, I've been driving and..." he burst into a nervous laughter. "I have no idea where you live."  
Sansa laughed with him, her fright evaporating.  
"I've been driving home this whole time - to my home, I mean. I don't know where my wits went."

He seemed quite embarrassed, and he even blushed a little, as if he had been caught with something - although his terror seemed genuine.  
"No, it's me..." giggled Sansa, "I should've told you where I live, I forgot you didn't know, I'm so clumsy..." she added, sharing in the blame. "I don't mind."

The light turned green, and Petyr drove on.  
"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked, his eyes on the road again but frowning. "What don't you mind?"  
"If we go to your house instead."

It was a gamble on Sansa's part, and she was prepared to lose it - she already had a script of what to say and how to act to make it seem a harmless joke, but she couldn't help but bite her lip in excitement, and even from the side of his eye Petyr didn't miss it.

He too was forming a script, on how to respond to something like that. He couldn't seem to take it too seriously; it might betray the fact that he wanted it to be true. And to ignore it would seem truly peculiar.

"Wouldn't you." he eventually asked, keeping his tone neutral.  
The smile on Sansa's face died off.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

Her reply died in her throat. Petyr wasn't saying anything, he kept his eyes on the road, his face humourless. She had never seen him look so cold, and it was starting to scare Sansa - not the fear she felt when she was in danger, but when she disappointed someone. She was already steeling herself for a storm of criticism about how inappropriate she was, and how stupid and silly.

"I'm sorry," she said again, "You've been so kind and I... I'm being a burden. You can-- actually, you can just drop me off here."  
Petyr turned to her, frowning still but now confused. His impassive silence had frightened the poor girl. She wouldn't even look at him.  
"That's all right, it's no trouble."  
"No, please, just pull over around here."  
"Miss Stark..." he said more softly.  
"I know the bus line that comes through here, I'll be fine."

With a sigh, Petyr pulled the car over. He couldn't well keep her against her will, even though he doubted she was telling the truth, and he shuddered at the thought of leaving her in the middle of nowhere on her own.  
Sansa opened the door and put her foot out in a hurry, but immediately shrieked. The car had stopped right next to a wide puddle.

"Damn." Petyr muttered, angry and sorry at the same time. Sansa pulled her foot back in, the white sock wet and dirty.  
"It's fine, I'll just... I'll get out the other side."  
"Miss Stark..." he tried reasoning with her, but Sansa was now ignoring him almost entirely. It broke Petyr's heart to think a moment of coldness from him had frightened her so.

Manoeuvring to her exit seemed poorly planned though, with Petyr in the way. He opened the door, but forgot to take his seatbelt off and when Sansa tried to rush out of his car, he got pulled back, and fumbling in the tight space landed Sansa right on his lap.

The girl blushed, but she was mortified, expecting to get shouted at. She breathed in a little sigh and waited to get pushed off with disgust.  
Petyr could do no such thing. He was as shocked as she was, and deep at the back of his heart (and loins) was grateful to whatever wild chance had brought him in that position. He knew he should have helped Sansa off or undone his seatbelt, but he couldn't move save to look at her down-tilted face and place a gentle hand on her knee.

"Miss Stark." he rasped. "Sansa?"  
"Sorry, I'll..."  
"You really don't have to leave, if you don't want to."  
She finally looked at him, frightfully close and open.  
"You misunderstand me, I'm not mad at you." he continued, as gentle as he knew how.  
"I thought--" the girl started, and choked on her words.  
"I'm not mad at you." Petyr said again, looking into her tender eyes.

He could feel the girl relax in his lap - he could even see her neck move as she swallowed - but she made no attempt to get off him, and he made no attempt to move her. Instead, he pressed his hot palm more firmly against her naked knee, trying to be reassuring but managing only to make himself hard.

"You'll need to change those socks too, no?" he offered, giving her a reason to let him take her where she wanted.

 

* * *

 

Sansa made her way inside her professor's house while he brought in the groceries. She hung her coat up and took her shoes off, and hopped on one leg to the couch where she pealed the wet sock off her foot. Petyr had just closed the door, and he had to stop and look at her a moment, forgetting about the bags he was carrying.

"I'll get you a towel." he rasped, and ducked inside the kitchen.

While Sansa dabbed at her leg - which really could have done with just a paper napkin - Petyr made them tea.

"To warm you." he smiled, placing the tray on the table in front of her. "You seem like you have a sweet tooth so I brought some sugar and milk."  
"Thank you." she beamed. Her earlier fears seemed completely gone. "What's the tea?"  
"Mint. I hope you don't mind."  
"Not at all."

Petyr had been right about her tastes. She added three lumps of sugar and a splash of milk to her cup. It was nice and warm in her hands, and the mint gave it a bit of a bite, but the milk softened it.

Her professor sat to her left in an armchair, stirring his cup and feeling a curdle of nerves now that they were where they were. It was already late afternoon, and the rain hadn't stopped and he had no idea what Sansa wanted. Meeting her outside of school had thrown him off centre enough.

"This is very good." she smiled. "Thank you."  
Petyr smiled back mutely.  
"I like your house." the girl continued, looking around the living room. "Do you live alone?" she dared to ask.  
He coughed, and said "Yes."  
"I thought so."

"Why did you think so?" Petyr asked, a bit intrigued.  
"Well, you don't have a wedding ring." Sansa replied, and Petyr's smile grew. "My friends and I, er... well, we don't have very exciting lives, you know, we like to look at teachers and try to guess things about them. If they have a wedding ring so they're married, if they have children, you know..."  
Sansa was just beginning to realise the impropriety of her admission, and she was already feeling guilty of incriminating her friends, even namelessly.  
But Petyr didn't seem to mind. He leaned back on the couch with a smile, nursing the warm cup in his palms.

"I could just be living with someone. Without being married." he offered.  
"No." said Sansa, a little bit shocked. "You wouldn't do that. ...Would you?"  
Petyr chuckled, and finally admitted "No."

The girl tried to hide her smile in her teacup, but Petyr could still tell. She was even blushing a little, and it tickled him that he had done that.

"Your home..." she continued, looking again around herself appreciatively. "It's very well kept, for a man who lives alone."  
Petyr tilted his head, looking for a moment like a bird with all his sharp, clever features.  
"My mother," Sansa explained, feeling a little sheepish at the admission "she says... well, she's under the impression that ba-- that men who live alone aren't very tidy."  
"She's not very wrong." Petyr laughed. "Most men aren't. I've always been particular about how I live though, I can't abide a mess."

The girl smiled, relieved that he wasn't upset with her. And Petyr smiled when he saw her smile.

"I didn't think you would go for such warm interiors though. You dress so..."  
"Yes, I know. I suppose they complement each other, the colours."  
"Does the tidiness complement the interior, then?" Sansa grinned. "Is your mind an absolute mess?"  
"You can't imagine." Petyr smirked.

They finished the tea, then Petyr brought in biscuits and more tea, and they chatted some more about life, and school, and the curriculum and Sansa's essays and by the time they got to specific authors, the girl remembered something with a startle.  
It was getting fairly late, and her parents had no idea where she was.

"Can I phone them?" she asked with urgency.  
"Yes, yes of course." said Petyr, showing her to the telephone.

Sansa dialled out of memory, and her host gave her some privacy.

He ambled around in the kitchen, rubbing his hands together as he often did when he was thinking. He expected he would have to go out again and drive Sansa home. He was too tired to try to hide the feeling of sadness at the prospect of being away from her again.

The girl found him in the kitchen, her bare feet patting on the tiles.  
"Mum wasn't happy," the girl sighed.  
"She was worried, of course."  
"Well yes, it's all right though, I'm not a child."  
Petyr gave a half-hearted smile.  
"I hope you don't mind, er... I made another phone-call too." she added coyly. "I told mother I met Jeyne Poole on the bus and we went to her place, and her mother let me stay the night. Then I called Jeyne and told her that..."  
"That if your mother calls there, she's to back your story." realised Petyr.  
Sansa bit her lip and smiled.

When she saw his sudden dour mood, her smile died.  
"Or I can... I can leave, I..."  
"No." Petyr rushed. "No, no, it's fine, I just... I wasn't expecting it."  
"Are you sure?"  
"What? Oh, no - yes - it's fine, truly." he reassured her. "I'm just not sure..."  
"Where to put me."  
"Er, yes." he coughed.

 

* * *

 

Petyr went to make them dinner while Sansa looked at his books. They were stacked in oak shelves all the way to the ceiling, and all along the wall. Many were titles she had never even heard of, she noted with shame, and plenty were foreign.

They ate omelettes in the kitchen, and Petyr put her wet garments up to dry. Well prepared by nature, he had everything she might have needed for a night - soap, a new toothbrush, even new clothes he had never worn, bought some time ago and forgotten in a chest of drawers.

He turned on the news at eight, as he often did, although his attention was shattered the whole time. Sansa sat in his former place in the armchair, curled up with a pair of new black socks and a loose set of clothes in earthly tones. She looked comfortable and frightfully domestic, as if it was just another day for them.  
The weather forecast wasn't very inspiring, there were storms ravaging their area the whole night through.

"It's very unusual for this month, isn't it?" asked Sansa pensively.  
"Mmm." he murmured, surprised as well. Springs tended to be very gentle for them.

After the weather there were some comedy sketches, and Sansa insisted to stay and watch - pleading very sweetly, in a way she knew he couldn't resist. She even left her spot and curled up on the couch next to Petyr, completely shameless. She was playing at seeming younger than she was.

Petyr's attention was divided the whole time, between what was on the television and Sansa's legs resting beside his. She didn't even seem to notice him, she just laughed at the television.

During a break in the programme, she mentioned, quite casually, how thankful she was again that he agreed to let her stay for the night.  
"You know that's quite all right." Petyr said again.  
"I was worried, you know... for a moment."  
"Worried?"  
"I was afraid you would be mad at me... Lower my marks, you know." she joked. But for Petyr, it was a shard through the heart.

He turned to look at her, trying to hide his shock behind his usual calm.  
"You're doing this because you're worried about your grade, then?" he rasped.  
"What? No!" said Sansa, turning to look back at him. They were both too offended to feel coy about their closeness. "I would never do that... That's not--"  
"But you just said..."  
"That's not why I'm..."

"Why, then?" he asked, suddenly feeling angry with her. "Why are you here?"  
"I just... I just wanted to spend time with you." murmured the girl.  
"You're a poor liar, Sansa."  
"But I'm not lying!"

Petyr found it hard to think, stuck between wishful thinking and cynicism - or was it realism? A beautiful young girl in his class wouldn't just want to 'spend time' with an old fool like him, and while he normally took her flirtation as the normal experimentation of young adolescents, he was gripped by the worry that the girl was just after his good favour. He had trained himself, as much as he could, to not think too much about Sansa's attentions, but he still harboured the idea that she had some genuine liking for him, as he did for her. Although neither of them should have felt anything, there was some comfort in that reciprocation, that balance, even though it was a ruinous balance.

While he stood there, looking quite dangerously at her, Sansa rushed to defend herself before she lost her nerve.

"I've just always kind of liked you, because you were nice to me, and not like some of those others -- I mean, most of our other teachers are rude and harsh, but you're always nice to us and I always enjoy your lectures, and I thought you liked me especially after I answered all those questions about Charlotte Brontë that nobody else could, and nobody else was as nice to me as you, so of course I like you, sir, but I didn't... I know, I'm just a stupid girl and I was just being silly, and I'm sorry for --"  
"No, Sansa, no no..." he melted, the tension leaving his bones in the sight of the girl's heartbreaking confession. He was close enough to embrace her, and so threw one arm around her. He cupped a big hand around her shoulder, resting his arm against her back and feeling through the material how warm she was.

The girl seemed close to tears, and Petyr wanted to beat himself over causing it.

"It's all right, darling, I understand now." he cooed.  
"Do you?" she asked, her voice a bit choked on the tears she was holding back. She looked straight at him, unflinching, and Petyr steeled himself at her closeness. "When you called me to your desk last week, about the way I was sitting..."  
"Yes, that was a bit unbecoming of you." he gently said.  
"Did you like it?" the girl asked, confusing him suddenly.  
"Well... no, it--"  
"Not how I was sitting. The other thing."

Petyr looked at her a moment longer, trying to deny what he knew - what he had known that very day, in spite of himself.

"I left them at home, I don't know what I was thinking that day, but I was a bit adventurous, and I wanted to see if I could get you to..."  
"To see..."  
"Yes."  
"Sansa..." he sighed. "You put me in a precarious position."

Petyr could already feel her cooling toward him. He acted fast.  
"One the one hand, I find myself having to chastise you for... violating the school's dress code. And on the other hand, you put yourself and I in danger."  
"But mostly you?" she asked fearfully. Clearly she had never thought about this very seriously.  
"Mostly yourself, actually. Someone other... aside from me could have seen. You wouldn't want that. In fact, you shouldn't want anyone to..."  
"I'm sorry..." the girl started, pulling away from his grasp and leaving Petyr's hand all cold. "I realise I should have thought about it better, I didn't think it would... disgust you or --"  
"No." he spoke before thinking. "It didn't, it... just..."

He couldn't continue the idea with her looking at him the way she did, big-eyed and hopeful. Petyr had been a fool to think she was playing around with him for grades. In her budding sexuality, Sansa produced merely the appearance of confidence.  
"I did lie a little though, Mr. Baelish." Sansa admitted after a moment of silence. "I said I wanted to stay here because I like you, and I do, it's just that..."  
"I know."  
"'Liking' sounds very... safe."  
"Yes, I know." he sighed. "And you can call me Petyr, when we're alone."

Sansa smiled, but couldn't nod. She found the sudden shift of hierarchy strange, although she appreciated the closeness it afforded.

"And I didn't answer your question." he continued, looking at the girl intently. "I did like it. I liked it very much, in fact." He could see her little bird's-chest rise in a gasp with his admission. "Which is why I think it's a bad idea for you to be here."  
"Why, what will you do?" the girl smiled, a little smugly.  
"I haven't decided yet." replied Petyr, keeping his stillness and intent look.

"Do you think, sometimes... about what you would do?" she asked half with curiosity, half with her usual brand of coyness.  
"Sansa..." he warned.  
"I do. I think about you every day, you know. For a while now, I've..."

Even with her admission left hanging in the air, Petyr could feel himself getting hard. Sansa seemed a trained temptress, she revealed a little and hid a lot, drawing his curiosity but denying him satisfaction. It was immensely titillating, a feeling he seldom got from people. She was like something out of a novel.

"You've... what?" he prompted, moving closer to her on the couch. It created an even more intimate air and Sansa didn't seem to mind.  
"Do you think about me?" she asked in a small voice, her eyes trained on his mouth, hers smiling hopefully.  
"Every day." he rasped, just before he leaned in and kissed her.

His hand rose to keep her head still, but Sansa didn't seem to budge. Petyr kept his eyes shut, wanting to ignore reality - if she ended up being repulsed - and live the fantasy a moment longer. He kept the kiss gentle, caressing her lips as innocently as he could manage.

When he pulled away and opened his eyes, Sansa still had hers closed. She finally looked at him, Petyr wasn't sure what to read on her face: it could have been shock, or delight, or fright. His heart pounded in his chest at a deafening pace, and he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Sansa didn't either. Instead she scooted even closer to him, and moved her hand up his arm. She was trying to pull him to her.  
"What?" laughed Petyr.  
"Please..." the girl murmured, her eyes thorough amorous, her mouth lax.  
"What, Sansa?" he teased. "Use your words. What do you want?"

She only bit her lips, her little paw pressing and pulling against his arm which wouldn't budge from where it was braced on the couch.

"I want you." she said, boldly.  
"Oh? How?"  
"In me."  
Petyr had to curse at that.  
"Pretty please?" the girl added, being coy again and writhing against him. He had no hope.

He tried not to rush too much as he helped her off the couch and up the stairs, shutting off the television swiftly when he passed by it. Petyr made her walk ahead of him, watching as she went up the stairs - and Sansa watching him as he watched her. He tried not to smile too much and ended up with his usual smirk, the one that always made the girl's heart skip.

She reached the top of the stairs, miraculously without stumbling. Noting her unspoken question, Petyr tilted his head and said "To the right."

His bedroom was dark, of course, and Sansa couldn't make anything out. With a hand on her waist, Petyr leaned over to turn on a desk lap, which gave just enough light for them to see each other, and what they were doing.

She tried to play at being brave again, and looped her arms around his neck, but she didn't have the nerve to kiss him. Petyr drunk in how ravishing she looked, even in his plain clothes and half-light.  
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, feeling obligated.  
Sansa was too stunned to say anything, but she nodded keenly.

She was shivering the slightest bit, and putting his arms around her Petyr had to admit he was shivering too. He couldn't even remember the last time he had held a lithe body like that - and the last time he'd had sex, he would rather not remember at all.

"I have to be out of my mind..." he sighed, his eyes still drinking up her enchanting features.  
"I won't tell anyone, I swear." she whispered, reading his unspoken fears. "Don't you want me, Mr. Baelish?"  
"I told you to call me Petyr." he said, raising his broad palm to the side of the girl's face. "What am I to do with you..." he sighed.  
"If you need ideas..." the minx smiled.  
"Oh, you think I need any more, do you." he chuckled. "On the bed."

It took a moment for Sansa to register what he said - ordered, basically. And once she did she hopped off like a good girl and sat down on the mattress.

He had a soft bed, neatly made, the sheets a dark watery colour.

Petyr approached her, gathering the last bits of courage he needed with every step. Once he reached her, he crouched down and fiddled with the edge of her shirt and the soft midriff underneath. He kept his eyes on her, trying to read for fear. All he saw was the normal nervousness, and anticipation.

Slowly, he unburdened the girl of her shirt, tousling her rich hair. It covered her naked breasts, which suited Sansa just fine - he had never guessed her to be shy until that day. She fell back on the bed, her eyes kept on him and her breathing quick. She was inviting him to take off her trousers too.

With a line of kisses down her stomach, Petyr dragged that bit of clothing off too, together with her warm socks, leaving her in a simple stitch of cotton.

He busied himself kissing along her thighs, her stomach, her hips, marvelling at how soft she was, and how sweet she smelled - a kind of scent he had never felt before, not artificial like a perfume, but warm and tender.

While he was getting lost in this, Sansa tried to contain her giggles. She couldn't help a twitch that caught Petyr in the side. He looked up at her curiously to find her laughing.

"You've never been touched here before, have you?" he asked.  
Smiling and blushing, Sansa shook her head.  
"So you think to hit me?" Petyr played along.  
"I'm sorry." she giggled.  
"Tsk tsk, miss Stark."  
"Will you punish me?" the girl asked, biting her lip and all but batting her lashes at him.

Until that point, it hadn't occurred to Petyr to play that game with her. Now that it had, the fantasy gripped him.

In a breath, he plopped down on the bed next to her and pulled Sansa over his lap. She yelped at the sudden act, before she settled in the act he was setting up. She was giggling uncontrollably, and wiggling a bit too much for Petyr's comfort.

He set one hand firmly on the girl's back, keeping her still, while with the other he started by petting her rump.  
"I'll ask you again, miss Stark, are you sure...?"  
Her reply was a little wiggle. Petyr gave it a little smack to keep it still.

He never dreamed Sansa could have had that many facets: incredibly tender and fearful and needy, but as fierce a person as ever he had met. He knew her to be very clever, but now he found the most delightfully playful side to her as well.

She yelped with each smack to her bottom. Petyr kept them light, until she started curving her back and presenting herself to him. Then he increased the force by degrees, slapping her ass in a steady rhythm - then her thighs, then the tops of her cheeks, and all over until he could tell the blush even in the semi-darkness.

Sansa's yelps had turned to moans, and they went straight to his cock.  
"Am I hurting you?" he felt compelled to ask.  
"No..." she groaned, arching her back some more. "I mean, a little... But it feels good."  
"Well we can't have that." Petyr teased. "You're supposed to be punished, aren't you?"

Sansa didn't get to answer before her professor moved his hand beneath the band of her underwear and tugged it down to her thighs. She gripped the mattress and buried her face in it, embarrassment fighting excitement within her.

Trailing his warm palm up her inner thigh, Petyr slowly reached her lips - he gave her time to pull away if she wanted to, but Sansa waited patiently for him to touch her. He groaned at what he found.  
"You _are_ enjoying this, aren't you?" he cooed. "Do you hear that?" Petyr asked as he moved a finger between her lips, playing with her wetness and letting it slick his fingers. She very well could hear herself and the sound of her wet lips made her feel on fire.

Without warning, Petyr took his hand away and started spanking her again, holding Sansa down tighter while his hand went down again and again, hitting one cheek, then another, then both of them in one strike. Her legs were tangled in the underwear around her knees, which made her feel doubly-trapped, wiggling on her teacher's lap while his hand smacked against her rump.  
"Open your legs." he breathed, pausing to pull the last garment completely off her.  
"What?" the girl asked in confusion, and no small amount of shame.  
"Open your legs, sweetheart."

Somewhat uncertainly, Sansa spread her thighs, bracing one leg on the bed. She felt the air lick at her lips and it helped cool her considerably.  
Petyr started spanking her again, gentler this time, treating each cheek to softer slaps at a slower pace. Sansa's moans had become intermingled with little yelps, and he had no interest in hurting her too much.

After a while of easing the girl to that position, he gave the first little tap to her pussy. She jumped immediately, more startled than hurt. Petyr shushed her and gave her another harmless spank, this time aiming for the mound.

He could feel her tense on his lap, but he couldn't keep himself from that delicacy. Feeling his palm smack against her soft wet lips made him hard as stone underneath Sansa's belly. Her lips looked plump, and getting plumper with each slap, and her wetness clung to his fingers after every touch. Eventually the slaps started to sound more like playing with water, and Sansa was writhing in his lap, torn between trying to move away and push into his hits.

Petyr was becoming afraid of losing his grip on the girl, so he moved Sansa onto the bed, gingerly laying the moaning girl on her front. She took the time to catch her breath and rub her tender pussy on his bed.

Petyr too caught his breath, and pulled off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. Sansa looked at him over her shoulder but he couldn't see more than her eyes, just faintly watery, staring at him. She stretched her arms toward the headboard and arched for him again, presenting herself.

"Oh Sansa..." he sighed, leaning over her on the bed in complete reverence. "What do you want, sweetling?"  
"Please, just... you know..." the girl murmured, her face buried in her arms.

Petyr trailed kisses down her spine, pressing his lips to every velvety bump and dip.  
"I want to hear it from you." he said, his lips muffled by her skin. "I want to hear you say all the things you want me to do to you."  
Sansa didn't respond at first, except by raising her rump and moaning into her arms again.

"Pleeaaaase, Mr. Baelish, please t-- take me..."  
"I told you," he kissed down her back, and once on each buttock, "call me Petyr."

And with that gentle command, he pressed his lips to her nether ones. Sansa nearly jumped at the sensation but stayed put. Petyr could feel her thighs trembling around his face, her smattering of damp curls tickling his chin while he feasted on her.

He knew he had made her very tender there, so he worked his mouth as gently as possible, trailing the edges of her lips, pushing against them, moving his tongue along her gash before leaving loving little pecks on the tip of her clit that peeked out.

Sansa moaned more loudly then than she had when he spanked her before, and Petyr couldn't help but rub his cock against the bed through his trousers.  
He dragged his tongue along her slit, drinking up the juice that was dripping out of the girl - then licked the bit that had stained the crease between thigh and cunt. She was incredibly wet, and very hot on his tongue, and he kept his face in her pussy until he heard her begin to yelp.

Petyr worked his jaw as he took in as much of her as he could, pulling gently on the smaller lips that dangled from her mound and sucking them into his mouth, dragging the tip of his tongue around her tiny, convulsing hole, drinking the sticky juice she kept making for him. Sansa tried to smother her cries in the pillows, while her hands were kneading the bedding. And his pillows smelled purely of him, musky and minty and, strangely among it all, cosy. His scent comforted her, while his mouth worked to torture her pussy.

It didn't take much longer for her to shudder in orgasm, yelping and cursing, canting her hips and grinding herself against his mouth - which kept suckling her like he was an animal and she was his meal. Sansa could feel all manner of wetness dripping down her, from both within herself and Petyr's mouth, and it only made her tremble harder.

She had to beg him to stop, twisting to grip his hair while she tried to work her knees to move higher up on the bed.

Petyr felt a mixture of pity and pride at hearing the girl whimper. He had worked her a little too much, he abashedly realised, her pussy lips as red as his own mouth now, but he was pleased to know he had pleased her.

He raised his hands in supplication, letting go of her thighs and moving back to catch his breath. Sansa couldn't budge to even move onto her back. She collapsed on his bed, her breasts crushed against his pillows.

Her eyes were closed in bliss, and a dreamy smile was on her lips. All the while, Petyr couldn't take his eyes off her, watching her in a manner that might have been a bit too predatory for Sansa's taste.

He took the time to take the rest of his clothes off, letting them pile on the floor instead of folding them as he usually would. Then slowly, Petyr raised himself and crawled back on top of her, gently moving her hair out of the way. Her back was warm and white, the back of her neck was soft and sweet, and he kissed every bit he could reach - trailing down, then up, then around her shoulders and arms, waiting for the girl to recover.

He could tell she had when she started moaning and arching her back, writing underneath him and trying to catch his groin with her bottom.  
"Are you tired, sweetling?"  
"I want more." she gasped, her eyes still dreamily closed.

Petyr smirked, pleased with her answer. He only wanted to tease her a bit more before he threw what was left of his integrity out the window.  
"You want this?" he slyly asked, aligning his cock with her ass and rubbing it between her cheeks. It was painfully hard, the head an angry red and dripping with pre-cum.  
"Oh fu--"

Petyr kept teasing her, grinding himself against her while his lips played with the back of her neck.  
"Is this what you want, then?"  
"Yes, please..." she moaned. She was shrinking underneath him, her arms pressed under her chest, her legs drawing together tighter, her whole body a bowstring.  
"Where do you want it?" Petyr whispered, letting his breath fan against her ear.  
"You know where." she whined.  
"I want to hear you say it."  
"In me..." she whined, keeping her legs closed between his but raising her ass, rubbing off against him. "In me, in my..."

"Go on, sweetling." Petyr encouraged her, kissing the shell of her ear while with his hand he moved the tip of his cock to her tender folds, mixing their juices and letting his cock dip the slightest bit inside.  
"In my... c...ccunt." she mumbled, her face completely buried in the pillows.

Petyr kept his word, and slowly he started to press harder inside her, feeling out her hole and slipping in. He did it slowly, eager to tease her and less eager to hurt the girl.  
"Oh yes oh yes... yesyesyes..." Sansa rambled, bracing herself against the bed and getting lost in the unique sensation. He was definitely bigger than two of her fingers. "Yes, please, in my pussy, right there..."  
"In this tiny little pussy?" Petyr teased, grinning against her skin and enjoying the act far too much.

Sansa was lost from sense and shame, caring only about the organ that was slowly slipping into her. At first it tickled, then it ached as it opened her up, then it embarrassed her as her copious juices started to get squeezed out, dribbling out of her and sounding obscene. Petyr seemed to like that sound very much though, and he moaned in an almost beastly way.

As more of his cock was pushed into her, the fingers that guided it were left outside, to fiddle with Sansa's swollen lips and the stretch of skin where his flesh pierced hers.

When he was far enough inside, he braced both of his hands beside the girl, on the bed, and worked further in with steady cants of his hips.

Sansa could feel the sparse coarse hair on his chest rub against her, and his rough groin scratch the taint of her ass, but all of that only made everything feel better. The mild pain spiced the heady dish he was serving her. He stuffed her slow and steady, forcing open the muscles of her cunt and touching her in places she had never felt touched before, rolling his cock all the way inside until the tip of it kissed her cervix.

Petyr was breathing heavily behind her. He relished every sensation, her sweet and salty scent, the warmth of her body - feverish on the inside, radiating on the outside. He could almost cum just from feeling her muscles struggle to hold him, trying to push out the intrusive thing that penetrated her, working his cock like a hungry mouth.

He let the girl settle in the feeling for a while, and then without warning started pumping into her. He did it slowly at first, assessing Sansa's reactions, what made her moan, what made her sigh, what made her whimper as if she would cry - but she never did, she didn't seem in pain.

He could faintly hear her murmur encouragements and approvals, so Petyr started rushing his pace, working in and out of her pussy with more force, his sac slapping against her mound and her juices making the most delicious sloshing sounds against his cock. At first her cunt tightened around him, tensing against the unfamiliar movement. Then she became wetter, looser, and he could feel her relax around him and content to simply _feel_.

After he had thoroughly opened her up, Petyr only cared about feeling more of Sansa, making her shiver when he angled his thrusts a bit more steeply, making her give a trembling moan when he bullied that spot over and over, or shushing her so she could hear how wet she sounded around him.  
"That's all you, sweetheart." he whispered tensely. "That's all you... and it's all mine."  
"Yes..." she gasped, rambling and senseless. "Yes yes yes, oh please..."  
"Say my name now." he cooed.  
"Petyr..."

If he had felt pleasure before, that was a spark compared to what he felt when he heard her say his name that way. With a groan, he buried his face into the pillow next to her.  
"Petyrpetyrpetyr oh OH yes there there keep doing that!"

He had to obey. He kept that angle and brutally rutted into her exactly how she asked, changing between grinding his cock inside her and pulling it almost out only to shove it back in, all aimed at her tender wall.

Sansa enjoyed that best of all, and eventually Petyr had to shush her.  
"You have to be quiet now, sweetling -- _oh fuck_ \-- don't... don't want anyone to hear us."  
"Pleaseplease just more -- oh! just fuck me harder..."

It only took a moment for Petyr to wrap his right hand around her and cover her mouth, his chest pressed against her back, and then his knees were fixed more firmly in the mattress and he started pounding her so hard she would have moved up the bed if he hadn't held her.  
"Like this?" he asked through gritted teeth. "Is this how you want to get fucked?"  
Sansa could only answer in muffled moans, but the way she was moving against him told Petyr that she liked it.  
"Is this hard enough for you, Sansa?"

The girl kept still under him, poised just so, her pussy lips swollen from the cock that rubbed between them at a frantic pace, her cunt kept spread open and almost gushing, her clit repeatedly being slapped by his sac.

He worked at her that way for countless more minutes, until he felt his skin tighten and his cock begin to twitch. Sansa was still moaning into his palm when he felt himself release into her, his hot cum saturating her walls. Sansa felt it too, and she moaned all the more deliciously when she felt him, rubbing against him more gently, even tightening her cunt muscles so she could milk him.

Petyr allowed himself to moan and kiss every inch of her skin he could reach, all the while thrusting into her slow and hard, driving himself as deeply as he could.

When he was done, he all but collapsed on the bed, catching himself only because she was under him.

He gave himself a moment to breathe before he gripped the girl, turned her over, and dived back with his mouth between her legs. His fingers worked her clit while his lips suckled on hers. Sansa was startled but all thought left her as he tried to make her cum again, and she spread her legs for him.

Petyr didn't have to try for long. Within moments, he felt her pussy twitch against his mouth, and her muscles started contracting, pushing his cum out of her and right into his mouth to the sound of her trembling moans. He licked her all along her slit, drinking up their mingled juices while Sansa twirled her fingers gently in his hair.

When he was done, Petyr finally allowed himself to take a deep breath, his face buried in her soft thighs. He could feel regret and terror creeping on him, but he refused to let them get a grip of his senses, at least while Sansa was around. She was looking down at him so contentedly, her face flushed, her pouty lips parted.

Petyr worked his way up her body and kissed her throat, her chest, her breast, before he took a nipple in his mouth and suckled, moaning all the while. Sansa giggled at the sensation. Her fingers were still in his hair, massaging his scalp and playing with his black curls.

The thought crossed his mind that he might tell her that he loved her, but he decided it wasn't the clever thing to do just yet, so instead he moved and latched onto her other nipple.

He could tell Sansa was exhausted though, and so was he. That had been his most thorough workout since he'd installed the new bookcase. His heart still hadn't stopped racing in his chest.

When Petyr raised himself off the girl, looking down at her tenderly, Sansa caught his eye, smiling - before her gaze went lower and inevitably met with his long scar.  
"What's this?" she gasped, raising a slim finger to trace it.  
"Oh, that..." he grumbled, ripped from his good mood by the unpleasant memory. "Childhood souvenir." Petyr smiled, somewhat bitterly.  
"Is that why you need the pills? The Pindo... Pin..."  
"Pindolol." he chuckled. "Yes, I suppose, in a way."  
"Does it still hurt?" the girl asked as she traced the ridged skin so carefully he almost didn't feel it.  
"No... not really."

Petyr allowed himself to fall back on the bed next to Sansa, the girl's attention still on the scar, and Petyr's attention all on her. Sansa's compassionate side was another facet of her he hadn't seen much of before. It was oddly moving.

She leaned down to trace her tongue along the scar, from his navel all the way to his collarbone. He could hardly suppress his moan, his cock even twitching a little in interest, but too exhausted for anything else.  
"Let's save that for later." Petyr groaned.


End file.
